American Drink

October 21st 2010

Jello Shots? Yes, Jello Shots.

by insooutso

When we started American Drink, I never thought I’d see the day when we published a post about Jello shots. But looking at any booze related commodity, when any food or drink is supersized en masse —and in this case, a drink whose sole purpose is to be mother-penguined from Dixie cup to mouth, mouth to toilet— there will always be a person that deconstructs the very nature of the beast, refining the elements in both shape and taste, creating something wholly new and incredible. We’ve seen it with the slow food movement, we’ve seen it with the resurgence of classic cocktails, and we’re seeing it now with, yes, Jello shots.

My Jello Americans has taken the classic frat house Jello shot and broken the mold, using exotic items like Absinthe and home-made lemoncello to create palatable masterpieces. But anybody can dilute high-test liquor in Knox Gelatin and call it a party. Megan, Moe and Cory take it one step further by using intricate molds to create unique shapes while adding Cosby-sweater color to their creations. Some are beautifully sophisticated and others are playful.

#1
The Van Ghost
Ingredients: Knox Gelatin, Absinthe, Tequila Rose, Cream, and Food Coloring

#2
The Mint Julep
Ingredients:Knox, Bourbon, Sugar and Mint

#3
The St Germeanie
Ingredients: St. Germaine Elderflower Liquor, Dry Sparkling White Wine, Peach Syrup, and Peaches

#4
Corn-Bred
Ingredients: Knox, Old Crow, Diced Jalapeño, Corn, Agave Nectar (for the corn) and Knox, Jalapeño Vodka, Sweetened Condensed Milk and Green Food Color (for the husk)

Posted at 11:14am and tagged with: James, Jello Shots, My Jello Americans, Slow Food,.

September 21st 2010

‘Smoke Glass’, by Joe Cesare Colombo (1963)

by insooutso

78 notes

Sometimes there is something so impractically beautiful and convenient that it would serve no other purpose than to act as a talking point.

Like costume jewelry on Halloween, and the feeling that comes from wearing wearing a theme or a period piece like a trousseau or chemise, worn once, then stuck in a box or a closet or the back of a drawer…

…forever misplaced.

(Source: designboom.com)

Posted at 11:28am and tagged with: Design, Italian, Joe Cesare Colombo, Smoke Glass, thee column, James,.

September 15th 2010

Friend of the Local

by insooutso

45 notes

Prologue: Most of these pieces won’t mean anything. I simply want to remember some of my people.

Jerry was a regular and a lawyer. The latter of which, believe it or not, was not a bad thing. He was a kind-hearted, 5’ 3” tall drink of water. Old-school, believing in buying a round for the bar for the sake of the bar, not the buzz of the recipient. Basically, he believed in the establishment and damn it if it didn’t believe in him, he would go elsewhere. Some of my staff learned that the hard way, but I kept him coming back.

Feigning knowledge of the legal system is a blessing and a curse. But in most cases, it’s inevitably a curse. Make the mistake of saying you’re a Legal Clerk —an Administrative Assistant at a law firm even— and the mosquitoes smell blood. Divorce, death, DUI: All inevitable if you hang out in bars long enough, more so if you hang out in bars too much. Suffice it to say that most of my clientele should have been charged rent, so Jerry had his hands full.

But Jerry was a different breed. Everybody was a friend of Jerry’s so long as they put money in our till. Yes, our till. He had no vested interest in the bar save the fact that it was a vacation home, a place in which he could cleanse himself of the courtrooms and the clients and the overall weight of his profession. He bought in without expecting a return, much like he did with most of his clients, and most of all, his friends. Tell him your problems and he’d give you proper council, but add rumor or bar gossip and the conversation was over, ended with a phrase like, “My name’s Wes and I ain’t in this mess.” Continue on and he’d punctuate the Wes-ism with a wink and a Marlboro Red, turning his chair politely. He’d punched out. Your billable time was over.

***

The morning Jerry died I broke. A lot of us broke, in fact. He was driving to work at an ungodly Amish hour as he was wont to do, pushing the spurs deep into his piece of shit Bronco when his chest blew a gasket. Somehow, and none of us, police included, are sure how he, but he managed to slow down and merge through five lanes of traffic, pulling over to the berm. The autopsy would show that Jerry had a Type 3 sudden cardiac death. Not a heart attack, but death. His heart, big as his glass was wide, turned over and quit. Technically, Jerry was driving dead, but his sense of responsibility pulled him over and put him in park.

As a bartender, the guilt of service weighs heavy on your hands. To put it bluntly, you’re pouring drinks for liabilities, people that could inevitably jump behind the wheel and kill someone. But you pray the whole time that they’ll play responsibly (why this legal burden rests on bartenders and not grocery store clerks is another story all together). So I play all my pours by the book and try to recognize the highs and lows, cutting off anyone that can’t push a thought or idea past the weight of their tongue. And try as I might there will always be circumstances beyond my control —Jerry was beyond my control— but it didn’t register, wouldn’t register.

For relaxing times…

by insooutso

102 notes

The infamous Suntory Whiskey scene from Lost in Translation, an American Drink favorite. It’s obvious in the movie that Bob Harris’ director was delivering far more than the interpreter could translate, and it turns out that the scene has an interesting back story.

You Might Ask Yourself has posted the dialogue from a New York Times article (2003) that gives a full translation of the scene. It states that Sophia Coppola got the idea for the mixed-message montage after promoting The Virgin Suicides in Japan. She recalls speaking to reporters, only to hear the reporter’s translator carry on for far longer than she had spoken. Inspired by the experience, she wrote the scene in English and translated it into Japanese.

Enjoy.

DIRECTOR (in Japanese to the interpreter): The translation is very important, O.K.? The translation.

INTERPRETER: Yes, of course. I understand.

DIRECTOR: Mr. Bob-san. You are sitting quietly in your study. And then there is a bottle of Suntory whiskey on top of the table. You understand, right? With wholehearted feeling, slowly, look at the camera, tenderly, and as if you are meeting old friends, say the words. As if you are Bogie in “Casablanca,” saying, “Cheers to you guys,” Suntory time!

INTERPRETER: He wants you to turn, look in camera. O.K.?

BOB: That’s all he said?

INTERPRETER: Yes, turn to camera.

BOB: Does he want me to, to turn from the right or turn from the left?

INTERPRETER (in very formal Japanese to the director): He has prepared and is ready. And he wants to know, when the camera rolls, would you prefer that he turn to the left, or would you prefer that he turn to the right? And that is the kind of thing he would like to know, if you don’t mind.

DIRECTOR (very brusquely, and in much more colloquial Japanese): Either way is fine. That kind of thing doesn’t matter. We don’t have time, Bob-san, O.K.? You need to hurry. Raise the tension. Look at the camera. Slowly, with passion. It’s passion that we want. Do you understand?

INTERPRETER (In English, to Bob): Right side. And, uh, with intensity.

BOB: Is that everything? It seemed like he said quite a bit more than that.

DIRECTOR: What you are talking about is not just whiskey, you know. Do you understand? It’s like you are meeting old friends. Softly, tenderly. Gently. Let your feelings boil up. Tension is important! Don’t forget.

INTERPRETER (in English, to Bob): Like an old friend, and into the camera.

BOB: O.K.

DIRECTOR: You understand? You love whiskey. It’s Suntory time! O.K.?

BOB: O.K.

DIRECTOR: O.K.? O.K., let’s roll. Start.

BOB: For relaxing times, make it Suntory time.

DIRECTOR: Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut! (Then in a very male form of Japanese, like a father speaking to a wayward child) Don’t try to fool me. Don’t pretend you don’t understand. Do you even understand what we are trying to do? Suntory is very exclusive. The sound of the words is important. It’s an expensive drink. This is No. 1. Now do it again, and you have to feel that this is exclusive. O.K.? This is not an everyday whiskey you know.

INTERPRETER: Could you do it slower and ——

DIRECTOR: With more ecstatic emotion.

INTERPRETER: More intensity.

DIRECTOR (in English): Suntory time! Roll.

BOB: For relaxing times, make it Suntory time.

DIRECTOR: Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut! God, I’m begging you.

Posted at 12:50pm and tagged with: Lost in Translation, Film, James, whiskey,.

August 11th 2010

Stranger & Stranger

by insooutso

27 notes

What do scotch whiskey, small batch lager and Icelandic vodka have in common? In this case, their labels.

Say what you want about modern advertising. Gone, indeed, are the days of Don and Peggy, and yes, we know you are far too wise to fall for any marketing ploy or ad jingle, but our eye will always linger on the image or the idea that speaks to us most, even more so in the liquor aisle. So admit it, you’ve purchased a bottle of wine based on the label alone, right?

Brands like Hendrick’s and Bulleit Bourbon have stood out (noticeably) in the market by embracing the past with traditional designs, and in a sea of frosty flavored vodkas and bedazzled tequila, subtlety goes a long way; the George Dickel begins to shine a little brighter and the Canadian Club seems to look more reliable. But as I stood there with a basket in-hand and an itchy trigger finger, I noticed that certain brands in particular were familiar, even louder than the rest. Turns out the majority of the standouts were designed by Stranger & Stranger.

Stranger & Stranger is a packaging design and branding company specializing in alcoholic drinks, from the playful labels of Spice Tree Scotch Whisky and Rialto Lager to the traditionally tasteful design of Cable Car Lager and Reyka vodka.

A creative agency specializing in nothing but beer, wine, cordials and spirits? Sugarberry sent Peggy a ham in a can. Imagine the souvenir room at Stranger & Stranger.

Posted at 11:34am and tagged with: Design, Mad Men, Stranger and Stranger, James,.

July 27th 2010

American Drink Recommends: Jimmy’s Corner

by insooutso

51 notes

Jimmy’s Corner
Theater District
140 W. 44th St.
New York, NY 10036
(212) 221-9510

It was my first time in New York City and I stayed at the Intercontinental on 48th St.. Only two hours into Times Square and I was already electronically hungover. Don’t get me wrong, at the start I had worn my tourist fanny pack with pride, sitting in Duffy Square with a skewer of Brazilian steak, listening to acoustic sets by a handicapped, chonie-clad patriot with a guitar. I even gave improper directions to a tourist! But as time went on I noticed I was no longer waiting for crosswalks and WHY THE HELL MUST YOU WALK THE ENTIRE WIDTH OF THE SIDEWALK? I had my bearings (apparently) and it was time to explore.

To a tourist drinker, the first eight hours in a city is crucial: spend too much time in one bar and you haven’t explored the city, spend too little time at many bars and the experience is, well, hazy to say the least.

But this was New York, right? Time to go overboard. I started my walkabout in Lansdowne Road at 43rd and 10th and eventually ended up at the Blind Tiger on Bleeker in the West Village, covering more than 40 blocks on foot. It was amazing. Simple conversations at even simpler locations, met up with friends, ate a Black Iron burger, hopping from bar to bar with Frogger-like precision, but by night’s end the beverages had taken their toll and I was no longer landing on the lily pads. It was time to head home.

After arriving at the hotel, I exited the cab and noticed a literal hole in the wall under a nondescript maroon awning, the entrance to Jimmy’s Corner. I could go for a nightcap. Hell, I can always go for a nightcap. But this drink would turn out to be so much more. Little did I know after ten stops in the city, I was home.

The long, narrow bar was lined with quilted memories of boxing’s past, but it is by no means cut-and-paste memorabilia. Pictures are tagged and mounted like taxidermy and it’s poignant, a family album of sorts, like the difference between dining under rusty Radio Flyer at Bennigan’s and snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef; you look at this place with sincere interest. And there’s a historical smell in the air, one of wet dust and bleached pleather. It was obvious that the place was cleaned with elbow grease for elbow greasers, a bar for citizenry.

I sidled slyly up to the bar and took a seat next to a peppery older man with a genuine smile not knowing he was the owner, Jimmy Glenn. Jimmy has worked in boxing most of his life. He’s trained at-risk youth in Harlem and worked as a cut man for boxing greats Michael Spinks and Floyd Patterson (He even lost some teeth to Patterson as an amateur fighter). And the picture of Glenn shaking hands with Muhammed Ali should let you know he’s something serious, if only for shaking hands with greatness. But to the common patron off the street you would never know it’s his place as he sat there among friends, pleasant, buying the occasional drink for a familiar face or a twisted story, blending in to his surroundings like water.

So you want to sling drinks…

by insooutso

23 notes

I do not have any experience which means I do not have any bad habits. You can train me any way you want.

Here, come close. I’m going to tell you a secret. That little line right there? That was my foot in the door. I was told by my original boss, a cocktail inclined black belt with a penchant for large breasted women that I would not have been given an audience otherwise. That little line changed my life.

Historically, community bar positions were shrouded in nepotism and endorsement, creating an ersatz Goodfellas replete with vouching and confirmation. In the world of community drinking there was no other way around it, you had to know someone who knew someone. And restaurant positions [shudder] were different in their own right, but carried a rite of passage all their own. For decades, those roles were relinquished to executive table jockeys with proven performance in the face of whipped topping and flair. But belts have been tightened and expectations lengthened so much so that bars and taverns are gasping for fresh air, expanding their fraternity to anybody that can push new syrup through their soda guns. So here are some tips that might help you land a gig in this, a new economy.

Experience remains a blessing and a curse. If a bar owner is able to build you from the ground-up, she can create you in her own image. But if she needs to teach you the most basic of drink combinations, your training won’t be worth the investment. A basic knowledge of drink construction, usually obtained from a year or two on the other side of the bar, combined with a large dose of common sense, will suffice.

Wait a minute. What’s that you say? You attended a nationally accredited bartending school? Get out of town! No really, get out. While an OSHA-approved safety certification (required in some states) or a Techniques in Alcohol Management training course will provide the owner some peace of mind, a bartending school degree will show that, well, you’ve got gusto or something. The cost of the school and the quality of the education is easily learned in the first day on the job, so forgo the enrollment and spend the $500 “studying” at your local.

Don’t let the social atmosphere fool you. Blue collar establishments are looking for every bit as much professionalism as their corporate counterparts. Dropping off a resume (not an application) during a rush will not win you any friends, nor will meeting the owner when you are half in the bag with your softball team. Complete a seasoned resume that focuses on hospitality and drop it off with the bar manager or owner between the hours of 2:00 and 4:00 pm. And if you are looking to tend bar as a second source of income, emphasize the point that one position will not affect the other. Your job, for them, will be their income.

Last but not least, be you. Tavern spotlights shine brightest on the imposters, be it clientele, staff or otherwise. Don’t lie, don’t cheat, and most of all, don’t steal. 95% of your job will provide fuel for a well-maintained fire. Expect 5% of that fire to be unpredictable. The way you handle yourself, your patrons and your bar will determine the extent of the damage. So in interviews, training or try-outs, if something doesn’t seem right, go with your gut.

Posted at 6:38am and tagged with: Bartending, Tips, James,.

June 20th 2010

Friend of the Local

by insooutso

12 notes

Prologue: Most of these pieces won’t mean anything. I simply want to remember some of my people.

I work at a well-established neighborhood bar where you check your ego at the door. We’re strictly liquids, a pinball machine and some steel-tipped dart boards. Given that most people come to our bar to hang out among friends and not for ceremony, I’ve always thought of our establishment as a sanctuary, a place in which you could wash yourself of the day and feel protected. You don’t need to worry about men fanning their plumage or the women seeking alms, we’re just a bar’s bar.

The first three years of my tenure I worked alone. I rang about $2500 a night, a large amount of sales for a bar our size. I didn’t have a bouncer, a bar back or a door guy. Low on ice? I sent a regular to the back and bought him a couple of drinks. Customer broke a glass? I’d hand him a dust pan and say please. Fight broke out? I’d throw on the lights and refuse service to everyone until the two meatheads agree to a public hug. There was an unspoken agreement of calm and community that was rare for its time, but the fact was that it existed. It still can, but bars like this are a dying breed.

I’d like to say that my memory and muscle propelled me through those shifts, single-handedly quenching the thirst of each and every patron that walked through that door, but the truth is I couldn’t have done it without my regulars. I’m not talking about Friday night frequenters. Attendance doesn’t make the student. Don’t get me wrong, if you come into my bar regularly, I’m going to reciprocate and acknowledge your patronage with a shot and a smile. But the regulars, the people that get the vibe and the family and the roots of a community bar, the people that want to see the business do well because the business wants them to do well? Those are the people that make my night; those are the people I buy wedding gifts; those are the people I let into my home; those are the people I want to talk about and remember.

***

Stevie was a regular. My first day working at the bar I heard him mutter, “That kid ain’t gonna make it.” Actually, I heard him say it loudly, multiple times, on multiple occasions. Regardless, I kept smiling, kept filling his glass, kept adding three ice cubes the way he liked it. When you sling drinks, you’ve got to accept the fact that not all of your customers are going to like you, but a word of advice? Try not to mess with anyone’s salt, especially if you’re new. Barroom salt, guff or lip, whatever you want to call it, is the tallow of the beast; braise it long enough and everything will melt away.

It wasn’t until third or fourth month of my employment that Stevie cut me some slack. Nearing the end of my shift, I walked over to the jukebox and keyed in some Nina Simone. An old blues musician by trade, Stevie’s ears perked up.

Stevie: “What the fuck are you doing?”
Me: “Me?”
Stevie: “How the fuck do you know Nina?”
Me: “Curtis. Sam. Nina. What do you want to hear?”
Stevie: “I see how it is.”

I was to be judged by the next six songs. And so began our friendship.

Rules for My Born Son. And You.

by insooutso

239 notes

1) Be polite and smile your brains out, but let the bartender flirt first. Always provide a number, never ask for one.
2) Decide what you will order on the drive to the bar. Eye contact is key, never wave money to get attention.
3) Vodka and Coke? That better be a joke.
4) If a song is longer than five minutes, save it for the blacklights and the basement. If the song is Meatloaf, congrats on your gender reassignment surgery. Your mother and I still love you just the same.
5) Buy someone a drink because you want to drink with that person. It’s a sign of respect and enjoyment. Never do it for the sake of reciprocation and never expect something in return.
6) “Sorry, I was drunk,” is never an excuse. Ever.
7) Never get to the point of throwing up. If it accidentally happens, it better be in the bar bathroom. If you’re in the bathroom, always in the toilet - never in the sink or urinal. If there is mess in any way, shape or form, grab a mop. It is nobody’s job to clean up your bodily fluids. Did your friend throw up? Someone in your party is responsible for clean-up.
8) Friends can talk friends out of driving when they shouldn’t. Real friends listen. Reoccurring problem? Reevaluate your friendship.
9) Blended drink? You better have sand between your toes, mister.
10) A proper White Russian is made at home. Never trust bar dairy.
11) There is no shame in getting punched if you are conspicuously trying to break up a fight. Fight between two women? Tread lightly, your role could get misconstrued. Additionally, it would be wise to head to another establishment.
12) Never bet on pool.
13) Did they turn up the lights? Go home. Don’t offer to help stock or clean; it looks desperate and you are probably getting in the way.
14) No politics. No religion.
15) It is safer to lick a urinal cake than it is to eat bar-top snack mix.
16) Always know the ingredients. Shots have many different names and chances are that the bartender doesn’t know what it is outside of the normal realm of shots (Bend Me Overs, Red Snappers, et al). If you give him/her the ingredients, there is a strong chance that they even know how to portion it correctly based off of the ingredients chosen. Lots of mixers? You better be ordering a round for the table and not an individual shot.
17) Never drop a drink into a drink. Never light anything on fire. Never slam your shot glass on the bar.
18) Alcohol doesn’t do certain things to certain people. If somebody claims that tequila makes them violent, it’s because they’re a violent person. Simple as that.
19) Make your own toasts. Sentimentality is good. Honesty is good. Poignant is good. Repeating what somebody else said is a quote, not a toast.
20) Compared to life, loss or lock down, cabs are virtually free.

Posted at 6:53pm and tagged with: Rules, James,.

June 7th 2010

Welcome to me.

by insooutso

34 notes

I hosted a foreign exchange student in high school. It was junior year, the height of hormones, and we were all excited to receive our guests on account of Lane Meyer and Monique Junot; they would all look like her, right? Anyway, we were anxious to inoculate our Dresdeners with all things Amerikanische that we decided to throw a party. We rounded up all of the fake identification we could muster and took off for the store, returning with a Suzuki Samurai’s-worth of Natural Ice and Boone’s Farm. We gleefully skipped up the steps with our booty, oblivious to the fact that our guests were sitting on the corner of the porch, bored out of their $300 Levi’s.

It went something like this:

“Here, have a drink!”
“Nein, Danke. I treenk maerteenees.”

Bettina was 15-years old.

If you don’t know me by now, you should know that I have been bartending for a little over a decade. It is not my only means of survival, but it has been my most educational - you get to see the best people at their worst and the worst people at their best. I’ve seen state representatives persuaded by lobbyists and I’ve toasted election-day results, I’ve seen wedding rings volleyed back and forth and one-knee proposals, I’ve celebrated births and I’ve drank in remembrance; the lessons I have learned have been immeasurable. But this moment in time, this one moment where I clashed cultures and cocked my head at a spry young fifteen-year girl old who casually, but politely, said, “I drink martinis” impacted the way I thought about drinking more than any Friday night behind the pine.

We should, with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts! - Cassio, in Othello.

Chilling some lime vodka and topping it off with some Crunk or some Drank or some Rockstar might taste like Care Bear marrow, but at the end of the night, what do you have? A fifteen-year old sugar boner and delusional expectations about Europeans going topless at their beaches and pools so they will do the same in your parents’ hot tub, right? Look beyond the sugar veneers and the camoflavor to see your drink for what it’s worth. Learn how to approach the bar and order with confidence. Seek out the past and make an old-timey cocktail like dear old dad.

Me? I am going to happily raise our son with a glass of wine at the dinner table, simply because I want him to have a palette and a sense of responsibility. Moreover, I want him to know how to operate 12 ounces before he (God help us) is old enough to operate 2000 pounds. I want him to drink for sensation, not sport, like my priggish foreign exchange student. I’m not saying the Europeans have perfected drinking or that the bulk of Americans are doing it wrong, but I see the good and the bad almost nightly. Here’s to hoping that we, on the other side of the pond, can do it better than we are right now.

That being said, it looks like I’m writing on a Tumblr with some pretty fine people. I don’t know how I ended up here, but I’m honored that I was asked to contribute. I hope we can clank a real glass in the near future.

So drink, not bombs; drive, not drunk.

Do you like that? It’s my catchphrase. I thought I needed a catchphrase. Give me a break, I’m new at this.

Posted at 12:45pm and tagged with: Introductions, James,.